


Breaking the Pact

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, First Time, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-22
Updated: 2008-03-24
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8701315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: It’s Deans last week. In his desperation, Sam turns an unexpected source for help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** This fic contains Smut, Angst, Dealing with Death, eventual Wincest. This fic will also have some (heavy?) religious themes to it. If this, mixed with the pre-mentioned things, disturbs you, I suggest you don’t read any further.

  
Author's notes: This chapter is rated PG. The rating will go up when the story goes on.  


* * *

**Title:** Breaking the Pact

**Chapter:** 1 

**Author:**

**Rating:** Overall NC-17, for the eventual sex, dark subjects and language

**Warnings:** Smut, Angst, Dealing with Death, eventual Wincest. This fic will also have some (heavy?) religious themes to it. If this, mixed with the pre-mentioned things, disturbs you, I suggest you don’t read any further. 

**Disclaimer:** I don’t own them, and if I made any profit out of this, I would have given up my day job a long time ago!

**Feedback:** Will make my day.

**Summary:** It’s Deans last week. In his desperation, Sam turns an unexpected source for help.

 

 

They decidedly avoided the subject, but they both knew that the unavoidable was closing in. A year was a short time at best, but when it was consumed by a desperate search for a way out of a deal that was unbreakable, it felt even shorter. 

 

Sam had exhausted all options, twice. Every single spell, chant, ritual, curse, every hoodoo man, witch, spell crafter, every magical object, every last one had been a dead end, bringing him no closer to saving his brother from dying and going to hell. And it was eating him alive.

 

Dean was lying on the cheaply made motel bed, snoring away like he had no care in the world. Sam sat on the bed next to him, his elbows leaning against his thighs, his large hands covering his face. He wasn’t crying, not anymore. He was as much out of tears as he was out of hope. He had tried everything, given everything. Every ounce of him had been consumed by this hopeless search for a solution that simply was not there. Sam looked up, looked at his brother with a pained expression he allowed on his face only when he was absolutely sure Dean could not see him. He didn’t want Dean to see the pale desperation on him, didn’t want his brother to know how he died inside every day that passed. Sam reached out, his fingers hovering over the glowing skin for a moment, before he clenched them into a fist and pulled back.

 

The truth was, Sam wasn’t sure if he could live without his brother. If he could live without _Dean_. He sure as hell didn’t want to, but he wasn’t sure if it was physically possible. He glanced at the sleeping figure again, savouring every inch of it, as if to burn the image to his eyes. He stared at the slowly rising and falling chest for a moment, his throat feeling slightly tighter than before. He lowered his eyes when Dean stirred, murmured in his sleep, and sternly kept them locked to his own, helplessly immobile hands, forcing down the strange feeling he had fought for years now.

 

When Dean settled again, Sam stood up, and walked to the fridge. He needed a beer. He knew he wasn’t going to sleep tonight anyway, and he figured, he might as well have a few drinks and try to make himself as comfortable as he could. He ran his hand over his face as he pulled the metallic lever which opened the fridge. He frowned when he wasn’t greeted with the waft of cold air he had come accustomed to feel when opening a fridge, and let out a frustrated sigh when he realised that there had not been a cold waft in the damn thing for ages. The beer was warmer than room temperature and what little food they had managed to gather had gone off. Sam took out a bottle, placed it on the counter and looked around the room. He finally located a blue bucket behind the trashcans and picked it up, giving one quick glance to the sleeping Dean before he walked to the door and quietly closed it behind him. 

 

The icebox was across the motel yard, on the opposite side of their room. Sam took a quick look around before crossing the empty space. The darkness didn’t scare him anymore, which was somewhat ironic seeing that he knew what lurked in there, but not being scared didn’t mean being stupid. His muscles tensed when he walked to the large, filled to the rim box. He lifted the lid and dipped the bucket into the ice when he heard steps closing to his.

 

Sam turned around so fast the old lady behind him took a deep breath and grabbed her shirt by her heart.

 

“Goodness me, young man!”

 

“I’m _so_ sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to scare you!” Sam held his hands out, palms forward, trying to calm the old woman facing him.

 

“Well, you did.” The woman sighed, taking a few deep breaths before looking up to meet his eyes. “I suppose it was my fault really, I did kind of sneak up behind you.”

 

Sam smiled, and held out his hand. “Would you like me to fill that bucket of yours for you, ma’am?”

 

“That’s awfully nice of you, young man. Thank you.”

 

The woman looked at Sam while he dipped the bucket into the box and started pushing the ice cubes into it with his bare hand. “Are you all right, son? You seem to be carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

 

“Is it that obvious?” Sam sighed, gave a weak smile to the lady as he handed the full bucket back to her. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Thank you for asking, though.” He lied, easily. A lie of that kind had become an easy one after telling it to himself and Dean for a year. The old lady tilted her head slightly and looked at him for awhile with an unreadable look in her eyes.

 

“It’s a shame really, with a handsome face like yours.” She said then, turning to leave. Sam nodded and was about to turn to get the ice for himself, when the lady spoke again.

 

“You know, when I feel troubled, I usually pray.”

 

Sam struggled not to snort. The old lady meant well, he was sure, but he was _so_ beyond empty words that were supposed to give him hope.

 

“I’m not much of a prayer.” He said instead, with a flat tone that gave nothing away.

 

“Well, maybe you should start. God hears everything, you know. And he is a powerful, very present help in your time of need.” She smiled encouragingly. “He can divide the oceans and bring back the dead, boy. You shouldn’t underestimate Him, boy.” With those words, the old lady walked away.

 

Sam shook his head and started filling his own bucket. Pray. Now, _that_ was rich. 

 

He pushed the lid of the box back down to cover the ice and started heading towards the room. Towards the hopelessness and the desperation that awaited in there. Sam stopped for a moment. _”A powerful, very present help in your time of need.”_ He took a breath and turned around to look for the old lady, but she was gone. He frowned, but decided not to make too much of it.

 

Inside him, however, flickered a new hope. This could be the very last straw to grasp on, but he was desperate enough to consider it. In the end, he thought, there was so much evil in the world, there simply _had_ to be something good too. And whatever it was, it owed them, big time. He wasn’t deluded enough to think, that a simple prayer would save Dean. But it was a start. 

 

Armed with new determination, Sam hurried into the motel room. Dean stirred in the bed when he closed the door behind him, but Sam was too much in a hurry to take notice. He placed the bucket on the counter next to the lonely beer and quickly paced to his bed, sitting down and opening the drawer of the nightstand. As always, a black covered bible was placed there, waiting for people of faith to open it and search for hope that it promised.

 

Right now, Sam needed that hope. 

 

He took the book, placed it on his knees and took a deep breath. 

 

“Here goes.” He mumbled to himself and opened the book at a random page. He glanced at the small text, frowning as he read.

 

It didn’t take him long to sigh and close the book. He couldn’t understand a word of what he had read, but he had understood that just reading stories of the great things God did would not help him to get Him to do that for Dean. Sam threw the book to the end of his bed and closed his eyes.

 

“If you exist, please, help me.” He whispered into the silent room, his heart heavy with disappointment and despair. After saying the words out loud, he felt like an idiot. Was he really going to hang all his hope on a book he had never bothered to read before, on a power he had never believed existed? He opened his eyes and started to get up to place the beers into the ice when he spotted something that had fallen next to the bible from, he assumed, within its pages.

 

He reached to grab the yellow piece of paper and lifted it to the level of his eyes.

 

_Desperate? Out of options? Call at the Last Hope Cathedral. All your questions answered, 24 hours a day, seven days a week._

 

Sam stared at the card. Then he slowly shifted his glare to the bible. “No. Way.” He whispered. 

 

Dean grunted in the bed, completely oblivious to the world.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes: This chapter is rated PG-13 for the hints of wincest. The rating will go higher as the story progresses.  


* * *

**Title:** Breaking the Pact

**Chapter:** 2 

**Author:** mauled

**Pairing:** Sam/Dean

**Rating:** Overall NC-17, for the eventual sex, dark subjects and language

**Warnings:** Smut, Angst, Dealing with Death, eventual Wincest. This fic will also have some (heavy?) religious themes to it. If this, mixed with the pre-mentioned things, disturbs you, I suggest you don’t read any further.

**Spoilers:** Season Three, after Jus In Bello 

**Disclaimer:** I don’t own them, and if I made any profit out of this, I would have given up my day job a long time ago!

**Feedback:** Will make my day.

**Summary:** It’s Deans last week. In his desperation, Sam turns an unexpected source for help.

 

 

The Last Hope Cathedral was small, old, and in desperate need of repair. The walls were black of something Sam assumed was smoke and ash from a fire that had happened there at some point, and the door was missing a hinge. Sam frowned, leaning against the side of the Impala, his hands deep in his pockets. He didn’t know what he had expected. A white marble palace with a divine light shining upon it from the heavens, or some other cliché? What ever he had expected, this wasn’t it.

 

“What is this place, anyway?” Dean murmured from behind the steering wheel, his voice deep and tired. 

 

“It’s a church.”

 

“I can see _that_ , Sammy. Why are we here?”

 

Sam turned around to face his brother. “I told you. I thought there could be someone here that could help us with…” He made a suggestive hand gesture. 

 

“With my problem.” Dean finished the sentence for him. He sighed and shifted on the seat, making himself comfortable. 

 

“You’re not coming?” Sam asked, frustrated.

 

“No.” Dean said, stretching his arms with a content look on his face. 

 

“Dean. _Dean._ Don’t you dare fall asleep. This is for you, damnit. _Dean._.” Said Sam, to the already snoring Dean. “Goddamnit.” 

 

Dean had decided he didn’t want to die and go to hell a few months ago, and he had tried to help Sam in his research about deals with demons. He had put a real effort in, in fact. And then Sam had seen Dean talking to Ruby outside their motel after a job, in a somewhat depressed manner, and after that, Dean had given up again. It was almost as if he had decided that no matter what he or Sam did, he was going to die, go to hell, and suffer for an eternity, and that there was absolutely nothing he could, or would for that matter, do about it. It had made Sam even more desperate to find something he could help Dean with. He didn’t know what Ruby had said to Dean, and quite frankly, he couldn’t care less. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Dean was safe, and the deal was broken. That Dean would stay with him.

 

Sam glanced upon the sleeping man, his fingers itching to touch the peaceful face. He wondered how long he could keep his feelings hidden from his brother. He only had a week. A week before he would lose Dean. And if he didn’t speak out, if he didn’t _act_ on what he felt in his heart, he would never have the chance. He didn’t know if he was ready to face what these feelings meant, and what would happen if he actually would act on them, but he was running out of time.

 

Sam pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. He had grown so used to ignore the strange desire in his heart that it was relatively easy to push that to the very back of his mind. He turned to face the cathedral. He knew it was his last chance. The very last place where he could look for help. Sam took a deep breath and walked over to the crooked door.

 

The door made a creaking noise when he pushed it open. The sound echoed in the empty and abandoned church like a scream for a moment, before suddenly dying completely.

 

Sam looked around, clearing his throat.

 

“Hello?” His voice echoed in the dark space. “Hello?”

 

He moved inside, his hand in his pocket, where, consequently, his gagger dipped in holy water was. The church was empty, save for the altar at the front and the old, mouldy benches in perfect line, one after another. Sam moved in, quietly and carefully, his eyes scanning the place. The door closed behind him with a creak and a thump. Sam turned quickly, pulling the handle with all his strength, only to notice that the door would not budge. Swearing under his breath, Sam wiped his forehead to the back of his hand and looked back to the altar at the front of the church.

 

“You shouldn’t swear in a church, you know.” A voice said. Sam looked around, trying to locate the source of the voice. “Can I help you?”

 

A man in a black suit and a white collar stood next to him. Sam jumped back a few steps, a high pitched squeak escaping his lips. The man tilted his head, smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Father Marcus.” 

 

Sam stared at the hand for a moment before he realised what was expected of him. He shook it with his own a little too hard. “Sam Winchester.” 

 

“And what can I do for you, Sam Winchester?” Father Marcus rubbed the hand Sam had shook and nodded towards the altar, beckoning him to follow.

 

“How did you know I needed help?” Sam hurried after the man.

 

“The fact that you show up in a church after midnight kind of gave it away.” Father Marcus laughed, walking to the altar and staring to light the candles. “Now, how can I help you?”

 

Sam pushed his hands deep to his pockets and sighed. “It’s rather complicated, Father.”

 

“Things usually are. Why don’t you take a seat?”

 

Sam reluctantly parked his behind on the bench, its mouldy smell paining his nostrils. He leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, and cleared his throat. “It’s actually very complicated.”

 

“Why don’t you start with the actual problem? I’ve noticed that it’s usually the circumstances that lead to the problem that are complicated, when the actual problem is quite simple.” The Father sat next to Sam, tapping his thigh with his large hand, in a friendly gesture.

 

“My brother sold his soul to a demon and he has a week to live before they come for him.” Sam said so quickly he barely heard his own words. He covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath. 

 

Father Marcus frowned, but didn’t stir. He crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back on the bench, on his face a pondering expression. “I suppose he made a deal of some kind with a demon?”

 

“Yes, how did you…” Sam looked up in surprise.

 

“In my profession, you get to know all sorts of things.” Marcus made a hand gesture which indicated that any further questioning was futile. “And was the pact fulfilled by the other party?”

 

“Yes.” Said a voice behind them.

 

Both men looked back simultaneously. Dean stood at the end of the queue of benches, his hands so deep in his pockets it seemed his arms had been chopped off. He had a dark look on his handsome features, and he cleared his throat before continuing to speak. “She kept to her end of the deal. Sam lives.”

 

Father Marcus nodded slowly. “And I suppose you are the brother in danger of losing your soul?”

 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d do it again.” Dean spoke as he bridged the space between him and the other men. “I’d do it in a heartbeat, if it meant that Sammy was alive and well. An eternity in hell is a small price to pay for that.” 

 

Sam felt Deans eyes lock into his, and he saw a deep, dark emotion in them. It wasn’t desperation or fear, it was… Sam turned his eyes to his hands quickly, with a deep gasp. His heart pound in his chest like a hammer and this was neither the time nor the place to analyze what anything, be it looks or emotions, meant. The priest gave a peculiar look to them both, slowly shifting his gaze between the two younger men.

 

“You did a very noble thing, saving your brother. You shouldn’t be punished for that.” He said then, stretching his words.

 

“Damn straight I shouldn’t.” Dean returned the priests gaze with his own, in a very fiery manner. “But that’s the way it is. I can’t change it. Ruby told me…” He paused, glancing at Sam briefly, “That there was no way out.”

 

Sam took a deep breath between his teeth. So that was why Dean had given in. That bitch of a demon had told Dean there was nothing that could be done. That _bitch_ had taken the last piece of hope Dean had kept within himself. Sam clenched his fingers into a tight fist. He would kick some serious demon ass as soon as this was over.

 

“Well, _technically_ she didn’t lie to you.” Father Marcus said, rubbing his jaw with his right hand, still having that curious look on his face. “Demons can’t break deals made with demons.”

 

“How did you know…” Dean started, but got interrupted with the same hand gesture that earlier had prevented Sam asking questions.

 

“That hardly matters.” The priest said, standing up. “But what _does_ matter, is that we have a lot of work to do if we are going to undo what you did.”

 

“No.” Dean said, standing still, stubborn. “If I wiggle myself out of this deal, even try to, Sam will die. I…” He turned to face Sam with a strange wetness in his eyes. “I can’t do that.” Dean turned to face the priest again. “I _won’t_ do that.”

 

“I figured there was a catch.” Father Marcus said. “That might make it slightly more complicated.”

 

“I told you.” Sam sighed. “Complicated.”

 

“Complicated, but not impossible.” Father Marcus said, with the patience of a saint. “Nothing’s impossible. Not here. Not today.”

 

TBC


End file.
